


My Cup of Tea

by ira_fae



Category: Enola Holmes (2020), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bisexual John Watson, Demisexual Sherlock Holmes, Enola accidentally discovers Johnlock, Enola and Watson are Bad at communicating, F/M, Gratuitous Tea-Sexuality Metaphors, M/M, POV Enola Holmes, gratuitous tea metaphors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:40:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27595622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ira_fae/pseuds/ira_fae
Summary: Enola has always been a forward thinker, but when she stumbles upon Sherlock in bed with someone it shocks her to her core. Enola has to take stock of her own prejudices and evaluate why it shocks her so.
Relationships: Enola Holmes/Viscount "Tewky" Tewksbury, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 5
Kudos: 135





	My Cup of Tea

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry for the tea metaphors. I'm not... I am... but I'm not.

Enola Holmes —yes, that Holmes— has always been a forward thinker. Hell, she’s dressed as a male more times than she can count on two hands. Her mother didn’t raise her to be a wife and mother and that has always been just fine by Enola. She loves solving mysteries and has created quite the life for herself as a detective. Not only that but with the help of Viscount Tewkesbury, Marquess of Basilwether, she’s set up a home for children with nowhere else to go. Not an orphanage, more like a boarding school. But a fun boarding school with lessons in hand to hand combat, chess, plant identification, and plenty of things that will help the children grow up to be competent, wonderful people. 

At the ripe old age of twenty, Enola is ready for a change. She and Tewkesbury have been spending more and more time together. He’s become quite the outspoken man in affairs of politics (which, much to Enola’s delight, annoys her eldest brother, Mycroft, to no end). The two of them often have dinner together in Tewksbury’s London townhouse. Not only dinner but tea, lunch, breakfast. Enola, to be completely frank, spends more time at Tewksbury’s townhouse than her little apartment at the school. Tewksbury made one of the guest bedrooms Enola’s room months ago and she has quite a bit of her wardrobe there. 

The point of all that being, Enola wants to marry Tewkesbury. Never in a million years would that have been her priority, but Tewkesbury is clever and kind and just as much of a forward thinker as Enola is.

And —she’s found, quite recently— she’s incredibly in love with him. 

But, how to do it? It, of course, being propose to Tewkesbury. It is unheard of for a woman to propose, but that’s just how Enola likes it. And she knows that Tewkesbury is too much of a gentleman to propose without speaking to her mother and her brother, Sherlock (as she is technically his ward, yes even at twenty, she is unwed after all). 

So, Enola will just have to do it herself. 

But, how to do it? Enola has decided that she must speak to Sherlock. Though she loves being independent and the fact that Sherlock and her mother has let her do so, she still has some things she is unsure of. Especially considering that she has never proposed to anyone before. 

She could take a carriage to Sherlock’s flat, Tewkesbury has one and so does the school, but she does love walking through London. How much it has changed since she first arrived four years ago, it’s a wonder to behold. As always, eyes stop on Enola as she walks past. She knows what she looks like, hair down instead of up, the brim of her hat just a little too high, the lack of gloves on her hands. Enola just can’t bring herself to care that people are scandalized that she doesn’t follow the strict —and frankly unnecessary— rules of fashion. 

A grin takes over her face as she stands on the stoop of 221B Baker Street. She raises a gloveless hand and gently taps the knocker, once, twice, thrice. Enola waits, excited to see her brother after having gone a few months without. 

The door is opened by a sweet-looking old lady who Enola immediately assumes to be Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock’s landlady. She smiles brightly. 

“Hello, dear, how can I help you?” 

Enola returns the smile and offers her hand out, “I am Enola Holmes, here to see Sherlock.” The lady shakes her hand, her eyes crinkling as her smile widens. 

“Ah, yes, of course. You and your brother have the same eyes. Come in, dear,” she gestures for Enola to follow her in, “You’re in luck, they’re not on a case at the moment. I’m Mrs. Hudson, by the way, but I figure you already know that.” 

“I do, in fact. Sherlock praises you in almost every letter he sends.” 

Mrs. Hudson waives a dismissive hand to the side and huffs, “Oh, that boy…” But her tone is fond. Enola can’t help but grin. “You just go up these stairs, they should be having their breakfast. They get up late.” Enola nods, giving Mrs. Hudson a sincere thanks before going up the stairs. When she gets to the door she repeats her knock, once, twice, thrice. She waits, expecting the door to swing open. But she gets no response. She knocks again, once, twice, thrice. Still nothing. 

Well, Enola has important things to discuss with him, she can’t leave just yet. She tries the handle. It turns and Enola pushes the door open tentatively. She must give Sherlock a talking to about locking his door. She steps into the flat, eyes roaming, cataloging everything. It’s quite tidy. There are several bookshelves filled to the brim with well-read books and in front of the fireplace sit two well-worn chairs. 

“Sherlock?” Enola calls out. She moves forward, brow knitting together as she turns to find a small kitchen. An _empty_ , small kitchen. Well, Mrs. Hudson was wrong in assuming they would be up. 

They, of course, being Sherlock, and his good friend, Dr. John Watson. Enola has only met Dr. Watson on one occasion and it was a short meeting. He seems a very clever man, and Enola could see right away why Sherlock kept him around. They got on like bread and butter. Enola had at least expected Dr. Watson to be awake. It’s nearing midday. Of course, it is a Saturday, but Dr. Watson seemed like a man to get up early and get started with his day. Apparently, Enola had assumed incorrectly. There is a little hallway that leads to three doors and Enola can only assume two of them are bedrooms. 

As she makes her way down the hallway Enola realizes that one of the bedroom doors is open. She peeks in and is surprised to find it empty. The bed is made and it looks like it’s been a while since someone has been in there. Perhaps, Dr. Watson wasn’t home. Enola keeps moving forward, completely ready to annoy her brother into the waking world. 

She knocks sharply, _once._ Then as she swings the door open she says, “Sherlock! Wake up, dear brother!” 

Enola Holmes —yes, that Holmes— has always been a forward thinker. But, one thing she had never expected to face was her brother, Sherlock Holmes — _yes, that Holmes—_ in bed with his best friend, flatmate, and assistant of sorts, Dr. John Watson. Not only in bed with him, but cradling him in his arms. 

Her jaw drops open as the two of them startle awake. Sherlock is the first to say anything. 

“Enola, let me explain...” 

She just blinks, mouth hanging open as if trying to catch flies. Dr. Watson has gone pale, putting both of his hands over his face, covering his quivering mustache. Sherlock sits up, throwing the covers off himself. He moves around the bed and steps toward Enola, a hand stretched out. Enola steps back, shaking her head, mouth _still_ open. 

“Wait, please,” Sherlock looks desperate. Enola isn’t quite sure why he’s asking her to wait. But then she suddenly realizes that she’s taken several steps back, in fact, she seems to still be stepping away from her brother. 

“Enola, please, don’t—” 

“I have to go,” she whispers. With that, she’s turning and running out of Sherlock’s well-kept apartment and clambering down the stairs, heart racing in her chest, all thoughts of Tewkesbury and proposals forgotten. She’s out the door of 221B and rushing through the streets of London before one could say, “You know what happens when you assume.” 

Enola can barely muddle through the jumbled thoughts in her brain, and she surely isn’t paying attention to where she’s going. She speeds through the streets, barely mumbling apologies as she bumps into strangers. Her heart races and her head begins to pound just feeling the shockwave over and over as the image of Sherlock and Dr. Watson curled up together paints itself in her mind. 

Somehow she ends up in front of Edith’s tea shop. She goes in, not sure what else to do. Edith is having quite a lively chat with a few customers when she notices Enola. She says a few things to the little group then makes her way to Enola. Her face is creased with concern. 

“Are you alright, Enola?” 

Enola shakes her head, unable to speak. Edith leads her to the backroom, face kind. She sits Enola down on one of the rickety chairs and bustles around with a teapot. Enola watches Edith’s work, unable to do anything else. Her mind still tangled with endless questions she can’t voice. 

Eventually, Edith sets a teacup in front of Enola, “Drink,” she says, pointing at the cup, “I’ll be back in a tick.” Enola picks up the cup with a shaking hand —how long have her hands been shaking?— and takes a sip. Ah, yes, chamomile, known for its calming effect. Edith, sharp as a tack, as always. 

A few sips later Enola’s hands aren’t shaking and Edith comes back into the room. She plops herself into the chair across from Enola and gives her an appraising look. 

“Alright, dear, let’s hear it.” 

Enola sets down her teacup and opens her mouth. Then promptly shuts it. She picks the teacup back up and takes another drink, unable to even begin to form a sentence. Edith nods gently, patting Enola’s other hand which rests on the table. 

“Take your time.” 

Enola sets down her teacup once again and closes her eyes. If she doesn’t look at Edith it’s easier. “Edith, have you ever known someone… who loves someone of the same gender?” 

There’s a short pause and Enola opens her eyes to find Edith looking at her thoughtfully. “I must say, this comes as a surprise, Enola. I thought you and that Marquess were practicality engaged. It’s nothing to be ashamed about though, love. What’s her name?” Enola draws her brows together. Ah, yes. She is in shock and has given little to zero context. Of course, this would be the train of thought Edith would go down. 

“No, that’s not- I’m in love with Tewkesbury. It’s not me.” 

Edith raises an eyebrow, “Well, regardless… I have known several women, several people, in fact, that are deeply in love with someone of the same gender. It’s nothing new to me. I don’t care what anybody says. Love is love, my dear, no matter who your partner is.” 

Enola nods. Then shakes her head. Enola puts her hands over her face and huffs out a strangled laugh. 

“Enola?” Edith asks softly. Enola looks up at her, peeking through her shaking fingers, “Tell me what’s really going on, dear.” 

“I… I don’t-” Enola can’t tell Edith. Sherlock never told her, so she can’t tell anyone. This isn’t her secret to tell. “I saw someone in bed with someone else of the same gender. This person had never told me that they… were like that. I- I don’t know how to feel.” 

Edith hums, narrowing her eyes, “I see. Well, let me ask you something, dear. Let’s call this person your friend, just for easiness sake. Does your friend being in bed with someone of the same gender hurt anyone?” 

Enola lowers her hands, shaking her head. 

“Does your friend loving this person hurt anyone?” 

Enola shakes her head again, unsure where Edith is going. 

“Does your friend… consensually doing intimate things with this person hurt anyone?” 

Enola shakes her head again and says, “Edith, I-” Edith raises a finger, and Enola snaps her mouth closed. 

“Let’s assume that your friend and this person are happy together. Do you really want to make your friend unhappy by intervening in any way?” 

“No, of course not!” Enola would never want Sherlock to be hurt. She dearly loves her brother. 

“Then, my dear, why does it matter if your friend is in love with someone of the same gender?” 

Enola’s mouth drops open. She looks down at the table, eyes staring at the swirling pattern on her saucer. She reaches out and grabs the teacup, the warmth grounding her. 

Sherlock and Watson… Together. She closes her eyes, focusing on the teacup in her hands, as her mind reconciles with the idea of Sherlock and Watson. She thinks of herself and Tewkesbury. They practically live together. They dine together. They work together. They laugh together. She loves Tewkesbury and she is incredibly confident that he loves her too. 

She compares her relationship with Tewkesbury with Sherlock and John Watson’s relationship. It’s really not that different when she thinks about it. Sherlock… lives with Watson. Sherlock dines with Watson. Sherlock works with Watson. Sherlock laughs with Watson. So, what if Sherlock loves Watson? What if Watson loves him back? 

It doesn’t hurt anyone. If anything it makes them happy. What’s so wrong with that? 

But… Watson is a man. Enola had always imagined she would have two sisters-in-law. A dull, boring sister-in-law, married to the dull, boring Mycroft. And an interesting, fascinating sister-in-law, married to Sherlock. 

It’s not even legal. It’s sodomy! It’s wrong and- 

Why? Enola lets go of the teacup and brings her hands to her temples, rubbing soft circles. Why is it wrong? What about it is wrong? Two consenting adults loving each other?

Enola blows out a heavy breath. She opens her eyes and finds herself alone in the kitchen. Edith must have gotten up during her crisis, going back to her bustling shop. Enola picks the teacup up and moves to one of the small, grimy windows, looking out into the street, eyes not seeing the few people that use the alley that the windows look out to. She can really only acknowledge the warmth of the teacup in her hand. 

“Enola? You’ve someone here to see you. Is it alright if he comes back here?” 

Enola turns, _something_ gripping her heart. Edith’s friendly face is poking through the doorway. She can only nod her head. 

John Watson, hat in hand, mustache twitching nervously, slowly enters the kitchen. He tries to smile in greeting but he can barely manage to lift the corners of his lips. Edith makes a gentle exit, giving Enola a knowing look. 

She gestures to the worn table and mismatched chairs, unsure she’ll be able to speak. Her hands shake and the tea sloshes around in the cup. Watson gently pulls back a chair and sits, perched on the edge of the chair, looking ready to stand and flee at a moment’s notice. He pulls the brim of his hat between his first finger and thumb, running all the way around it. His mustache still twitches nervously. Enola takes a deep breath in, feeling truly and utterly rattled, letting it out slowly, shakily. Every time they make eye contact Enola’s brain helpfully supplies the image of Sherlock’s arm draped over Watson’s chest.

“Dr. Watson,” Enola manages to greet the man as she sets her teacup back in it’s worn saucer. She lowers herself onto her chair as Watson’s upper lip looks like a few loose shingles on a particularly windy day. 

“Ms. Hol- Enola,” Watson corrects himself, seemingly remembering that during their one meeting Enola and Sherlock had told him to call her by her first name. His eyes dart away from her and she almost feels as if she’s interacting with a startled animal. Though, considering the circumstances it seems a reasonable reaction for someone in his position. 

“Would you like some tea?” Enola asks, just barely managing a polite tone. How silly the two of them must look, Enola muses. Almost like a startled cat and the frightened dog that happened upon it. 

“No- No, thank you. I assume that-”

Enola swiftly interrupts, regaining some sense, not near enough to ready to speak about what happened. “You must have some tea. Edith serves the best tea this side of the Thames.” Enola stands again, not waiting for another response from Watson. She makes her way around the kitchen, fluttering oddly, hands shaking as she goes about a task that she is plenty familiar with. 

Edith just adores Enola and very often Enola will spend free afternoons here, helping her. She has worked in this kitchen on the busiest of days, listened to the thumps and thuds of Edith training hordes of athletic women, organized and sold countless books. But, as she flits about the kitchen she feels as if it’s the first time she’s ever made tea. 

“I take you for a black tea sort of man, Dr. Watson,” Enola says, her back still to the man. She can’t bear to look at him, images of him, back pressed against her brother’s chest, head perched peacefully on a pillow it almost seemed they were sharing- “Am I correct?” 

“Ah, uh… Yes, I suppose… I like many types of tea.” The way he says it, Enola almost feels like he isn’t talking about tea. “I’ve… tried both light tea and dark tea. I find that I enjoy both.” 

Enola feels like she’s standing on quicksand. She places a teacup on a saucer. She pours tea into the cup and clicks her tongue as her shaky hands cause her to splash some of the steaming liquid onto the saucer. She picks up another saucer. She places the full teacup onto the saucer. She picks it up but doesn’t turn around to Watson.

“I… just like light tea. I have a favorite tea. One tea that I- I could drink for the rest of my life.” She turns then, teacup and saucer in hand to find Watson looking out the window, a trembling hand up by his face, gently tapping fingertips against his lips. She sets the teacup and saucer in front of him. Then she sits down in front of him. They sit in silence. 

“I also have a favorite tea, Enola. I could see myself drinking this tea for the rest of _my_ life. However short that may be. This tea is… It’s strong. It’s intense. It’s-” Watson seems to fumble to continue their cobbled together metaphor. “It’s the best tea I’ve ever had, Enola. I’ve never been happier. I understand that some people… Some people think I shouldn’t… drink this tea. They think it’s not- not good for me or- or bad in some way. But, Enola, how can something that makes me so happy be bad for me?” 

Enola doesn’t realize she’s crying until Watson is offering his handkerchief to her. She dabs at her tears and looks away from him, thumbs brushing against the soft material of his hanky. 

“I- I didn’t know,” she whispers. 

Watson sighs, “He wanted to tell you. He’s wanted to tell you since… Well, you moved here four years ago, yes? We met shortly after. Frankly, it’s been most difficult for him to lie to you.” 

Enola looks back at Watson, there are tears in his eyes now. “You love him.” It’s not a question but Watson nods, looking more earnest that she’s ever seen a man. Enola closes her eyes and the image of Sherlock’s arm draped over Watson’s chest flutters to life again. She sighs gently. 

“It’s- I- I want to speak with him.” 

Watson stands, “He’s still at the flat,” Enola looks up at Watson, hurt that Sherlock wouldn’t come looking for her himself. Watson seems to sense her disease and shakes his head, “He was so distraught… I thought it better if he stayed. He’s probably torn his hair out by now.” Enola can’t help but laugh and that sound breaks any remaining tension between the two of them. 

It’s a relatively short carriage ride back to 221B Baker Street and Watson gives the driver a hefty tip. Then, they’re standing on the pavement, looking up at the building like Enola had only done just a few hours previously. Watson looks over at her and she gives him a nod. She follows him up the stairs and she tries to think of something to say. 

Her mind is still blank as Watson pushes open the door. Anything she might’ve thought of would’ve flown out of her mind watching Sherlock whip around, clearly mid pacing. His eyes light up and he seems to only see Watson. 

“John!” The tender tone fills Enola with an emotion she can’t seem to name. Watson gestures over to Enola and Sherlock’s eyes go wide. Enola doesn’t think she’s ever seen him so surprised. He’s always observant of everything. Again Enola thinks of the startled cat and frightened dog. 

“Well,” Watson starts, “I’ll go see if Mrs. Hudson-” 

“No,” Enola says firmly, “stay. You… you deserve to be part of this conversation.” Watson’s eyes widen and his mustache seems to stop trembling for the first time since he woke up that morning. Sherlock’s breath hitches very softly. 

“Please, Enola, sit. I have so much I should’ve told you.” Sherlock gestures to the armchair he usually occupies anytime Enola has come to visit and she dutifully sits. Watson gently lowers himself into the one opposite as Sherlock disappears into the kitchen to grab another chair, presumably. 

He does indeed return with a wooden dining chair and he sits, looking just as nervous as Watson had when he sat in Edith’s shop’s kitchen. His gaze flicks between Enola and Watson, expression unreadable. 

“Enola,” he says, almost gravely, “I suppose I should start by telling you… I- I am not attracted to women. I never have been. Ever since I was a little boy. In fact, I have never been attracted to anyone until…” His gaze floats to Watson and Enola follows, finding his mustache twitching, this time with amusement. 

“Ah, dear, it’s tea…” Watson says softly. Sherlock cocks his head to the side and raises an eyebrow. Enola can’t help but laugh. 

“Dr. Watson… He told me that… well, he likes all kinds of tea but,” Enola looks between the two men, amusement growing as she recounts their blundered metaphor, “he has a favorite tea.” 

Sherlock knits his brow together for a moment, working it out. Then he connects all the pieces of the puzzle and he grins, “Well, Enola, I have tried several kinds of tea but… the only tea I’ve ever truly enjoyed was…” He looks fondly over at Watson, and Enola nods. 

“Sherlock… It was a great shock to me,” Enola starts.

“I am so-” 

“No, hush. Listen, dear brother. I stumbled upon something I wasn’t expecting. Something that truly shocked me, rattled me to my core. But… Edith and the good doctor here both made me review my perspective,” She pauses glancing at Watson, “Do you love him, Sherlock?” 

“More than I love anything else in this life.” 

Enola looks back at her brother, “Are you happy?” 

Sherlock pauses for a moment, contemplating, eyes on the fireplace, “With John? Yes. He… he is like my other half.” He looks up at her and Enola’s breath catches this time. She has never seen her brother so… open. So honest. So vulnerable. 

“Then, I am happy. I… don’t really understand to be perfectly honest. It sort of goes against conventional society but… When has a Holmes ever been conventional?” Enola and Sherlock share a smile. 

“Well, Mycroft is quite conventional,” Watson muses, serious. Enola and Sherlock both burst into laughter. 

“But, truly,” Enola says, “If you are happy… I would not be the kind of person I want to be if my actions resulted in your unhappiness. Dr. Watson is a fine man.” 

“John,” Sherlock says, “call him John.” 

Enola nods, “I suppose if he’s part of my family now, I should, shouldn’t I?” Sherlock’s smile splits apart his face. 

Enola Holmes —yes, that Holmes— has always been a forward thinker. Hell, she’s dressed as a male more times than she can count on two hands. So what if her brother is in love with a man? So what if two consenting adults live happily together? It may take Enola a while to get used to it, but she’s always been a forward thinker. So, she must keep moving forward.

-

Sherlock and John do end up giving her the most wonderful idea for a proposal. Now the only thing left to do is find a florist that will sell that many chrysanthemums to her. 

**Author's Note:**

> come yell at me on Tumblr [@ira-fae](https://ira-fae.tumblr.com/)


End file.
